KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (8 page)

Chapter
12

Son of a Gun, We’ll Have Big Fun!

I easily snuck up to the side of the cabin, next to an attached, fenced-in area about fifteen feet square. The six-foot chain-link had green slats woven into it to aid in camouflage and for added security. A person could stand behind the fence and not be seen from a distance. Up close, I peeked through but only saw an empty dirt floor and back entryway into the cabin.

I found the little green 49 cc moped leaning against the fencing a bit out of place. But I figured the little motor bike was used for a runner to go somewhat clandestinely to and from the main road where more guards were posted.

A two-foot piece of the chain-link wire lay next to the fenced enclosure’s gate. By instinct, maybe intuition, I decided to wire the gate latch shut. Anyone who wanted in or out would spend at least thirty seconds untying the thing, or have to scale the six-foot-high fence. Neither a great feat, but it was something to slow down anyone trying to escape.

Of course, the thought occurred to me that the one trying to
get the hell out of Dodge
could be me.

As I kept an eye out for the sheriff’s officers, I had the feeling of being watched. Standing in sunlight, I turned toward the swampy area behind the cabin and peered past the small enclosure into the dark and shadowy swampland. I shielded my eyes from the surrounding brightness and waited for them to adjust.

Within a few seconds, I made out human figures. Several small bodies were lying curled up behind more of the chain link — only this fencing was painted dark and didn’t have the green slats like that of the empty area beside me. This cage complex seemed to stretch out about 100 feet across and at least that deep into the dark swamp, well camouflaged by the dark fence, military camouflage netting and the triple canopy of vegetation overhead.

I made out a figure in an upright position, seemingly tied up inside the fencing, head bowed as if unconscious.

My vision adjusting further to the darkness, I found the reason I had that “being watched” feeling. Large eyes lit up from the darkness and a broad, tooth-filled grin appeared.

The dark-skinned man held a Kalashnikov of some kind, hard to tell if it was the old big bore AK-47 or the later, smaller-bore model AK-74 in the shadows. He leaned on what I presumed was Billy White Cloud’s cage. The shadowy silhouette seemed very tall in the darkness, like a pro basketball player. And the shape of his head seemed oddly egg-like.

Unarmed, I had little choice but to try and feel this guy out. Would he shoot me or just attempt to capture me?

That grin seemed odd, and my first impression was that this man was of somewhat diminished mental capacity.

From my kneeling position, I returned the grin and gave him a child-like finger wave.

He gave one back.

I wondered if he might have been told to make sure no one got away, but, with the other guards in mind, no one had thought to tell him to report or stop anyone nosing around the cabin.

Figuring I’d deal with my special new acquaintance when the time came, I placed my ear to a shade-covered side window and listened while watching for the guards.

I heard two voices; one deep and curt, the other higher with a Southern drawl.

*   *   *

The deep voice said, “Let’s get this wrapped up. I need to be downtown by six. How long before we can load the items?”

The one with a Southern drawl said, “We’s got the two container trucks here, now. Dep’ty Perre an’ two dozen of m’best is caravannin’ eight more — should be here within the hour. We’ll pack all the items in to the ten containers for now, then divi’ ‘em into a total of twenty-four once they on the ship at the Napoleon Avenue Terminal when we’s done. Ship should be loaded and ready by t’morrah early-mornin’. But we won’t have it manned ‘til pro’lly midnight t’morrah.”

“That should work. We want the ship to leave in darkness, anyway. But the sooner the better, Sheriff. That FBI agent is getting close. If she gets anything on us, we’ll either have to kill her or sink the ship in deep water — or both.”

“I think you know killin’ her would be my preference, an’ I say we don’t wait fo’her t’get anythin’ on us. We’s cain’t risk bein’ sposed.”

“You’ve left too many loose ends on this first shipment. But if you can tidy up a bit, we might be able to get in two more shiploads of 500 items each over the next year. Your take on that would be upwards of two-and-a-half million per ship. You’d better get your shit together or you’ll lose all that — and maybe your life, too.”

“Listen, Legba, m’shit’s together. You’s the one that keeps losin’ kids. How many do that make now, seven’n the last two weeks? Water moccasins an’ copperheads’s one thing, but starvin’ be altogether different.”

“They wouldn’t eat.”

“Shit, maybe you’s oughta spend some o’that twenty-five million to get them decent food ‘stead of that nasty crap you’s feeds ‘em that makes ‘em shit an’ puke they’s insides out.”

“Don’t tell me how to run this operation, Sheriff. You just find three replacements.”

“What, ‘bout the two that injun boy rescued, then changed his mind — don’t they count?”

“You didn’t tell me you got them back.”

“Got tipped inta the swamp, first. But we got ‘em back. That boy laid ‘em into the bateau, nice an’ gentle like whilst Perre and me was splashin’ ‘round avoidin’ them damn gators an’ snakes. Then he runned off. Guess he figured that was all he could do to save them’s lives — give ‘em back an’ ‘scape t’get help. Weren’t no help for him, though. We caught up with him out by the bait shop an’ beat the livin’ shit out o’him.”

“We still need one to make up for the kid your dumbasses spoiled.”

“Well, what this time: black, brown, yella or white?”

“One blonde female under twelve. And take her directly to the ship. But this time, hands off! Make sure she’s still a virgin when your perverts deliver her. Those fools getting a nut off cost’s us half — that’s $500,000, Sheriff.”

*   *   *

This conversation was getting me a little pissed. I couldn’t wait to get to these creeps.

In my current elevated state of anger, when one of the guards came strolling around the corner of the cabin, I felt I had no choice but to strike him in the throat with the inside edge of my open hand. He fell directly to the ground like a limp rag, and I dragged him to the side before either of his buddies had a chance to see.

After placing his Smith & Wesson .357 behind my back, beneath the waistband of my trousers, and replacing my un-tucked shirt, I listened at the window again. The dirty cop lay at my feet, his eyes bugging, not getting any air through his crushed trachea to gasp or even make a sound. When he glared at me in his final moment, I kicked him in the groin to give him one last thing to remember for his trip to the afterlife. After a few seconds he finally expired.

One of his hands opened as the life left his body, revealing a pocket knife. He was the whittler, probably had come around the side of the cabin to take a leak or find a new stick. I took the knife and opened the longest blade.

*   *   *

Inside, the sheriff’s higher-pitched voice said, “I tol’ you, I’d kill ‘em if they mo-lest ‘nother chil’ again. I meant it an’ they know’d it.” The sheriff hocked up
phlegm and spat. “What ‘bout that injun kid?”

Legba’s deeper voice said, “We’ll take him with the items aboard the
Mazu
. If things go bust, we’ll sink the container ship in Sigsbee Deep and make sure his body’s found with the ship’s crew in the debris. With a little work, the FBI will think he was involved — maybe even in charge of the operation. All the items will be inside containers so, push comes to shove, they’ll sink like bricks. Under two and a half miles of saltwater, it’ll be years before they can get down there to investigate the wreckage in any meaningful way, and we’ll have everything cleaned up by then. They’ll never track it back to us. A small, worn out, Chinese-flagged feeder ship in international waters won’t be an attractive treasure hunt for anybody — not even Clive Cussler — especially being listed as empty. The FBI will only have rumors to go on.”

With a long pause, I imagined Legba staring at the sheriff to punctuate his next words. “But we don’t want it to get that far, you understand, Sheriff? The
Mazu
is loaded with gold as far as we’re concerned. And that little antique container ship is key to this whole operation. Which brings the question about that Indian boy’s mother — she still alive?”

*   *   *

“Andy?” One of the remaining two guards asked as he stepped around the corner, following in the footsteps of his dead partner.

I decided to make an impression with this asshole. As he turned the corner, I shoved his head back with one hand to his forehead and used “Andy’s” big pocket knife to slit the child molester’s throat from one side to the other.

If I were Mafioso, I might have reached into the gash and pulled out his tongue to make one of those cute little Italian neckties out of it. That would have made a lasting impression on whoever found the body. But I’m not a sadist. I don’t like torture or brutality. I don’t even enjoy killing the scum of the Earth.

But
somebody’s got to do it
.

As I leaned back to the window, the cop fell to his knees with his hands around his neck. Blood poured through his fingers. His dying eyes glared at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

Really, I don’t enjoy killing even child molesters. Honestly. However, I have no compassion for child molesters, kidnappers or cold-blooded killers and assassins — call me a hypocrite about this last one, if you want.

I suppose if my beautiful wife were alive and standing beside me now, she would have said I was lying to myself.

The flashback the thought induced came to me as if I’d stuck the knife I was holding into my own heart. I have to admit, I did enjoy killing the bastards who had brutalized her and took her life.

The deputy finally collapsed over his partner’s dead body, and I threw the pocketknife to the ground beside them.

I took the time to glance over my shoulder to the children’s guard in the dark swamp behind me. He seemed unfazed by my actions. He waived at me with his fingers and grinned again.

I recalled what the voices inside the cabin had said.
Five hundred kids?
I was stunned considering it.

My plan had to be modified, and quickly. I had no idea how I could gain the upper hand against an armed force of what was probably upwards of ten or twelve men, then somehow rescue five-hundred small children from their swampy cages and keep them safe from all dangers, besides.

Regardless of how, I knew I
must
.

*   *   *

At the window, I heard the sheriff say, “Don’t see how that bitch can hurt us much. We take care of this E Z Knight guy, an’ we’ll have that fray cauterized. Sumbitch killed both those contractors, then has the balls t’fly into
Naw-lins
an’ go all psycho on Poppy, too.”

“John Poppy?”

“Yeah. NOPD found’m in his wrecked car ‘roun’ noon, one eye missin’ an’ stabbed in the chest with his own knife. Ran into the back a street-sweeper truck. Looked like he’d been through
hey-ell
.”

“What are you doing to get Knight?”

“APB on him — we’ll find the sumbitch.”

*   *   *

As the third cop came around the corner looking for his buddies, I realized this would be a great time to make an entrance.

Chapter
13

In the House of the Rising Creeps

I gave the third sheriff’s deputy a chance to get a good look at his companions before I grabbed him by the shoulders and rushed him backward to the front of the cabin.

A fourth and fifth guard had arrived in another sheriff’s car. They stood by the door, pulling their sidearms. I side-kicked the closest one in the knee, hinging it backward with a snap.

The fifth officer was bringing his gun up as I shoved my human battering ram into him. Grabbing number five’s gun hand and pulling it past me, I hit the outside of his elbow with the heel of my other hand. His arm snapped with a loud crack as it bent in a direction it was never intended to go.

Before my battering ram had a chance to consider any sort of physical protest, I yanked him up from his sitting position against the wall and heaved him into the cabin door, swinging it wide. The officer ended up sprawled onto the floor with me standing over him in the doorway.

In the next second, half a dozen pistols drew on me, and I raised my hands to keep them from shooting first and asking questions later. Scanning the five men inside the cabin, I realized, besides the painted up dude in the black top hat and chicken feathers, I was by far the best looking, but smallest guy in the room — and I’m 6’1” and not a bit skinny.

“Sorry!” I said, “I didn’t see the WWF sign on the door. Thought this was the Tammany Parish PTA meeting.”

Who I took to be Sheriff DePue sat at the far end of the table. He hadn’t moved, but he was the first to talk. “How the hell’d this bastard get this close without somebody shootin’ him?”

Another officer from inside the cabin had his piece leveled at me as he slammed the door back shut, and the sheriff’s deputy on the floor scrambled up and finally pulled his gun as well. It seemed they all packed Smith & Wesson .357s.

My former battering ram said, “Don’t know, Sheriff DePue. He jus’ appeared from nowhere.”

DePue said, “Jus’ like that damn Injun boy done ‘peared outa nowhere an’ caused all this mess?”

The only man in the room smaller than me had stood from the middle of a long table when I burst in and was now glaring at me. With the getup he wore, I was pretty sure this was the face that matched Legba’s deep voice. He was about average build and, other than the voice, Voodoo costume and face paint, just another guy. But something in his eyes seemed familiar. He wore some sort of leopard loin cloth or skirt, his body was finger-painted in myriad colors, he wore bones, feathers and teeth around his neck. And tucked into the band of his black top hat was an ace of spades playing card and a red feather.

The deputy behind me at the door pulled the .357 from behind my back and also lifted my wallet. He tossed the wallet onto the table in front of DePue.

“E Z Knight,” Legba stated more than asked.

DePue scrutinized me, then glanced at my ID inside my wallet. “You the one-man army come to kick ass an’ take names?”

I didn’t answer.

Legba and his men sat down.

The sheriff said, “You don’t look s’tough t’me.”

The muffled moans and groans caused by the injuries I’d inflicted came easily through the closed door.

“Who the hell’s whinin’ out there?”

Battering ram said, “Charlie and Jimmy Ray, Sheriff. He done killed Ralph an’ Andy.”

“What? Killed ‘em?”

“This asshole slit Andy’s throat an’ did I don’t know what to kill Ralph. An’ he messed Charlie and Jimmy Ray up somethin’ awful. Broke Charlie’s arm at the elbow an’ Jimmy’s leg at the knee. Turned their limbs backwards on theyselves, like they’s double jointed.”

“Shi-it! Four men?” He hammered the table and glared at me. “Boy, you gonna pay! Y’know how long it takes to cul-ti-vate good officers of the law into m’way of thinkin’?”

My former battering ram spoke up again, “Sheriff, we gotta do somethin’ for Charlie and Jimmy Ray.”

The sheriff said, “Them boys’ll be laid up for three to six months — useless — a damn liability. An’ how’m I gonna splain what happened?” The sheriff shook his head. “Cain’t splain no broken arm and a broken leg on my payroll. Looks bad, someone take ‘vantage o’the law like that. I can more splain how this here perpetrator come up an’ s’prised them boys, stole a gun and kilt all fo’ o’them with it, though. We’d have public sympathy on our side. Besides replacin’ the lost men, might get me s’mo’ officers an’ a pay raise.”

The sheriff glanced at Papa Legba. Legba’s return stare was hard and cold. The sheriff shook his head remorsefully and sighed. “Grover, you know’d what t’do — an’ do it with Charlie’s own gun — not yours.”

“Sheriff?”

The groans continued from outside.

“Don’t y’query m’none. Put Charlie’s gun in you’s hand an’ do what you’s gotta do!”

The officer glanced at the .357 he was pointing at me. His eyes grew wide.

The sheriff continued, “Now leave this here E Z fella up to us. You g’on out an’ take care o’you’s business.” He stared at the young officer. “An’ Grover ... this time y’see some fella walkin’ up the road — ya shoot ‘em, boy! Otherwise, gonna be me doin’ what’s gotta be done with you.”

Officer Grover hesitated.

“Now, g’on, I said.”

Grover left. Ten seconds later, a gunshot rang out. After two more seconds of pleading, the powerful .357 discharged again.

“Your reasoning is flawless, DePue,” I told him.

“You makes the mess,” he said, “you cleans it up. You
is
the mess,
you
gets cleaned up.”

Two of Legba’s men sat one on each side of their boss, fidgeting. They’d stuffed their weapons — looked like H&K .45s — back inside their jackets. It was obvious what they were; both in business suits, both with cropped hair and thick necks, one white guy, one black. These were bodyguards, no doubt. They weren’t dressed for play or ritualistic ceremonies, they were dressed for chauffeuring and protecting their boss.

The sheriff said, “Now boy, y’try that bendin’ m’elbow backwards on me I’ll break you’s arm off an’ shove it up you’s ass, is what I do!”

I smiled. “I’ll do more than try. And you won’t be able to do a thing but whine.”

“Woo-who!” he said. “Boy, you’s mouth is writing checks you’s ass cain’t cash—you know that?”

“I know you’re no Jackie Gleason, but you are a slimy ball of shit.”

He laughed. “Keep talkin’ and smilin’, boy. Ol’ Bob Dylan here’s gonna have some lunch in a minute, an’ guess who’s jus’ invited hisself t’dinner.”

That’s when I realized what I thought was some sort of Voodoo decoration on the floor in front of Legba was the head of a large and living alligator. The thing stretched out at least twelve feet, the end of its tail against the wall past the sheriff on one side of the room and its head sticking out from under the middle of the red-cloth-covered table.

The sheriff kicked Bob Dylan’s tail.

It opened its mouth and gave a hissing gator growl, as Legba held it back with a chrome-chain leash from under the table. I noticed a yellow spot with a deep scar in the middle of its forehead.

The alligator turned its head toward the sheriff and growled again.

“Who-who!” the sheriff said. He tossed my wallet inside the gator’s mouth and it clamped down on it. “Now you hold tight to ol’ Bob Dylan while he’s digesting our visitor’s ID, Legba. I don’t wanna be his dinner. This yeah-who here’s the one come delivering hisself to ou’door like Domino’s!”